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labyrinth2015Title: (Wishing) That Such Heights Were Lower
Beta: My smart, geographically astute and always insightful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
otherbella
Pairing: Neal Tiemann/OFC, past Neal/Andrew Cook, past Cook/Archuleta
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for adult themes and substance abuse references.
Summary: On 20 December 2015, Neal gets word that his best friend needs him. From All I Really Need is You, Part 9.
Dedication: Forlire_casander. Happy birthday, darling. You asked me for this part of AIRN from Neal’s perspective, ages ago – I hope I did him justice. I love you and I love that you’re happy. I want all your dreams to come true.
Also for myfrackin_sweet - when I imagined Neal’s kickass Lin, I saw a blend of Kara Thrace and you, because you’re just that awesome!
Not-for-profit work of fiction, no libel or intellectual property violations intended. Will remove without prejudice if cease and desist validly issued. All publicly recognizable characters belong to themselves; Neal’s new puppy and OFC belongs to me ♥. Title taken from MWK song “Anodyne”, awesomely, seamlessly written by Neal and Dave, which I may have been listening to on repeat as I wrote this.
(Wishing) That Such Heights Were Lower
[Neal Tiemann, David Cook], [PG-13], 3,500+ words
From AIRN Ch 9: On Cook’s thirty-third birthday, Neal fucking Tiemann showed up unannounced at the rehab institute, pierced and tattooed and wearing what looked like the ugliest parka in the entire world.
Neal woke, blinking, with the cold winter dawn.
He hardly got enough fucking sleep these days. In this last month, Lin kept waking up every few hours to pee. He was now so used to anticipating her stirring beside him – the cant of the mattress, her muttered cursing - that his body roused itself even in her absence.
Half-asleep still, he reached for his cell.
There was the expected, characteristic message: Shuttle docking 7 am! The time panel by their bed read 6:32. Lin was flying into Fresno, which gave Neal plenty of time to get up and make himself presentable.
He sent: Copy. Keeping things warm for you, doll. He was the songwriter, after all; he was allowed to wax poetic to his girl.
He stumbled to the bathroom, trying not to curse out loud himself. The wooden floors were freezing under his bare feet. He’d no idea why he’d decided to buy this huge old house in the unfashionable Californian foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It had sounded kickass living amongst sequoia groves and the ecosystem that housed grand Yosemite Park, but on mornings like this he wondered why they didn't live three hours away in temperate San Francisco. In December, the solid brick walls of their house were colder than the winter armpit of Tulsa.
Lin usually rolled her eyes at comments like this. She’d grown up in Chicago, which was a different measure of coldness altogether. Neal still wasn’t sure what quirk of fate or fickle hand of the music industry had brought two die-hard Midwesterners out to California, but here they were, against the odds, by some fortuitous roll of the dice.
Of course, thoughts weren’t enough to keep him warm. Neal got into a sweatshirt and jeans and the fluffy slippers Drew had gotten him for his birthday last year. Drew knew from experience how cold Neal's feet got.
He padded downstairs and turned on the coffee maker. Sevven raised his nose from his place on the mat and whined enquiringly, and Neal opened the door to let the puppy out into the cold.
He stood on the frosty front step and watched Sevven bolt into the yonder. They'd lost Sixx a year ago at a ripe old age, but his frisky, amiable son - not a puppy anymore, though that's how Neal still thought of him - filled the void he'd left in their lives.
Neal squinted as the yellow morning broke over their yard. He refused to hire a gardener. Lin did her best when she was home, but still, in comparison to their neighbors on this side of the hills, their untended mile looked like the Addams' Family lot, especially now, with stripped trees and hardy hedges and clumps of frost on the bare ground.
His hands weren't shivering, exactly. Lin hadn’t asked, but he’d chosen to keep the smokes out of the house for the last seven months. So here he was functioning on less than zero nicotine and no one to blame except his own damn stubbornness.
Actually, his hand wasn’t shivering, it hurt; it always did when it was cold. And that was the result of his own damn stubbornness, too. He’d hurt it when he was younger, smashed it into a wall over a romance gone awry. Sheer stupidity, of course. The doctors said that without an operation he might never play again; he’d shown them.
Of course, the same sheer, stubborn stupidity had been involved when he’d hurt it again, two years ago to the day – smashing out of Dave Cook’s house over something even stupider than romance. Neal had believed they would always put the band first, always put the music first. He'd put himself in front of a truck for any of the guys. He'd believed Dave felt the same way. He guessed Dave had shown him where Dave's real priorities lay.
Neal clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to work out some of the stiffness. He'd brought a physiotherapist on the Midwest Kings reunion tour - it kept his fingers in working order in Cain's Ballroom and Pechanga and Tinley Park - but he'd been slack after the first leg of the tour. The Kings had New Year's Eve concert dates; he'd have to go see the doctor before then.
Shit, it was no good. Neal needed to get back inside. He put his hands under his armpits, arms around his chest. Something hurt there, too. He took a moment to recognize it as the hot, painful tightness that came with thoughts about Dave. The years had blunted the feeling, but he still thought about Dave all the time, with equal parts of anger at Dave's stubbornness and regret at his own.
And, of course, something else as well: he missed his best friend. Brilliant, charismatic, unafraid to wear his heart on his sleeve and laugh at himself, Dave had been larger than life, had been such a large part of Neal's life for more than a third of Neal's life. They had written and played together so seamlessly that they could have shared a brain, almost. Neal knew he'd never write with anyone who understood him on a personal and artistic level like that ever again.
Their problem, Neal figured grimly, was that they were too similar. Both too bull-headed, whatever: they'd ignite a roaring blaze to warm a concert hall, or that could burn the whole fucking house down. He couldn’t remember exactly how everything had gotten strained over the years, but at Dave's thirty-first birthday party, Neal had made some crack about Dave's precious acting career and Dave had gone apeshit, and the guys had had to pull them apart to keep them from killing each other.
He'd banged out of David's house that night, slamming the door so hard it cracked on its hinges. So hard he'd had to drive one-handed to the emergency room later, and had to fight back tears as the doctor shot his hand full of Novocaine.
They'd hardly seen each other since. Neal had nothing to say, less to apologize for. What the actual fuck, Dave had been too busy filming to even come to his wedding.
Damn, now Neal really needed a cigarette.
Smokes were in his car. He figured he had time for a quick one before Lin got home.
"Come here!" he shouted after Sevven, and the pup came obediently out of the frozen bushes. He jogged over to his old Jeep, Sevven at his heels - the dog had finally learned not to nip the furry Drew slippers.
He rummaged in the glove compartment for cigarettes and lighter, and smiled as the nicotine rush curled through his body. Standing in the cold in his gravel driveway wasn't helping, but he leaned against the side of his battered old vehicle anyway. He blew smoke rings into the frosty air and felt the sweetness of the drug leach some of his bitterness away.
He finished two smokes and got inside and warmed up. He put some shoes and socks on, which helped. He was starting his second cup of coffee when he saw Lin's round headlights pull around the bend and up the driveway.
He and Sevven were at the door in no time at all, not running, exactly, and when the Ford pulled to a stop Neal was lifting his wife out of the driver's seat and kissing hello.
"Cold," Lin said, after a while. Ah, he'd thought the coffee had warmed his lip rings up, but clearly he was wrong. He cupped her face. Her short blonde hair stood out around her head like a dandelion clock, it always got like that when she flew. She was wearing the aviator’s jacket he’d gotten her last year from the Battlestar Galactica convention, knee-high, high-heeled boots that made her even taller than he was, and a stretchy black maternity smock and skirt.
"How's my girl?" Neal asked softly.
Lin grimaced. "Kicking. She hates the United Airlines breakfast, and now I do too." She reached back into the car for her Coach satchel, and Neal popped the Ford's boot to retrieve her carry-on. Lin was a rock 'n' roll tour manager, her third trimester wasn't going to stop her from flying or driving or pulling her own damn suitcase on the 'plane.
He took her warm hand in his free one, and grinned to himself when she frowned at the touch of his rings and muttered, "Cold," again.
She took a somewhat ungainly seat at the kitchen table. He poured her some milk instead of coffee, and she made a face as she drank up. "How was Vegas?" he asked her.
"Warmer than here," she said.
"You should've stayed longer, sweetheart."
She reached for his hand in a rare gesture of affection. "Maybe I wanted to be home for my husband's birthday tomorrow, so sue me."
"I'm glad you did. I missed my girls," Neal said, and then he frowned when she kept looking away and didn't meet his gaze.
"I actually also wanted to tell you something," she said; there was a tentative note in her voice that was unusual for her. "About Cook. I had coffee with Jill when I was in L.A., she's still working for him."
Despite the warmth of the coffee, the dog at their feet, it was suddenly cold in their kitchen.
Neal tried to take hold of the artificial calm of the nicotine, the real, solid center of his life. Two years had passed: this shouldn't hurt this much any more. His wife shouldn't have to be this concerned about mentioning Dave's name to him.
He made his voice casual. "So what's the bastard done now?"
Lin finally looked up at him. Her gray eyes were transparent. "You need to be ready to hear this," she said and squeezed his hand; she'd never said anything like that to him before.
"Lin, damn it - "
She said, trying to sound matter-of-fact: "Cook's in rehab. Coke and amphetamines, apparently he's been using for years. Jill says he tried to kill himself."
Neal found he couldn't say a thing in response. The cold curled in his bones, took away his power to breathe.
Lin held his hand and waited, too. She looked kind of miserable. Neal was dimly aware of the fact he must look far worse.
"Fuck," said Neal, eventually.
Lin said, "I know, right? Jill was really messed up about it. She didn't know how he'd managed to keep it from her for so long."
Funny thing, Neal had an inkling of how that felt. Neal saw their last encounter in Cook's house in Pacific Hills, Cook's red, furious face, totally out of control. Oh God, he should have known, should have done something. Apparently he'd been using for years -
"What's Jill's number?" Neal asked. He wasn't shivering, his hand didn't hurt, his voice sounded exactly like him. His wife still couldn't meet his gaze, though.
"Neal..."
"Sweetheart, you know you need to tell me," he said, and she dug her cell out of her coat pocket and threw it on the table.
Being a personal assistant was a 24/7 job in L.A. Jill sounded alert and professional when she answered on the second ring. "Jill Harrison. Linda, is that you?"
"It's Neal. Where is he?"
Jill went completely silent. He could hear her debating whether to hang up. The blood pounded in his head, making everything suddenly hot. He didn't want to threaten to go to the press, or to yell at her, but if she didn't tell him --
"You'll make things worse," she told him, finally. She sounded sadder, more defeated than he remembered. "He was really upset when you guys fought, worse when the band broke up. I don't think you can do anything for him now. Why don't you just leave him alone?"
For the second time this morning, Neal found he couldn't say anything. He watched his bad hand tighten into a white-knuckled fist. In his peripheral vision, he could see his wife press her fingers to her mouth.
He heard Jill breathing rapidly on the other end, waiting.
Finally, Neal said, "I am so sorry," surprising himself. Words he hadn't said to Dave, and, goddamn it, now it might be too late.
Jill was silent, and the words came out of Neal in a rush. "I know I've been an asshole to him. I just never thought..." He squeezed his eyes shut. No, he never fucking thought - about anyone but himself. He'd shut Andy up when Andy wanted to talk about Dave; he might as well have been a paranoid coke-head himself for all the use he'd been as a friend.
Where the words were coming from, he had no idea. He said: "I can't just leave him alone; I've been doing that for the last two years. I should never have left him to face this by himself."
He heard her take a shuddering breath. He had to focus. He wasn't crying or anything; he was totally in control.
"You know it's his birthday today? If he's in rehab, he's gonna be feeling like shit. I...Jill, please." He leaned his head on the kitchen wall. "I need to see him."
He had to promise not to tell anyone before she told him, her voice so soft he had to ask her to spell it: Gracehaven, an upscale Orange County rehab center. Seemed like he had a long drive ahead of him.
"I'll call ahead," said Jill, faintly.
"Thank you," Neal said. It made her cry even harder before she hung up.
Lin was red-eyed when he handed her cell back to her. She was calm, though. Her ability under pressure was one of her strengths. Now he was the one who couldn't meet her gaze, couldn't embrace her - his defenses would come apart like Kleenex, and he needed to stay strong for the drive.
He put his hand on her waist. "I gotta go, sweetheart. I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll be back as soon as I can."
She nodded. What was there she could say except, "Drive safely”?
Freezing cold again. He shouldered his way into an ancient parka he knew she hated; today, though, she didn't say anything about how ugly it was. He knew she'd cry when he left, burying her face in Sevven's fur, but she was dry-eyed and straight-backed when she kissed him goodbye.
"Don't do anything stupid," she added. Her hand found Sevven's collar, holding him steady at her side.
Well, it might be too late for that.
Dana Point was a six hour drive across the new mountain freeway and down the I-5. Neal drove it in five, fueled by caffeine, swearing and smoking up a storm.
Five hours: more than enough time to watch the relentless playback in his head, the memories from over a decade of friendship. The early hardscrabble years, the gags with rubber chickens and plants and Walgreens, the late nights on the bus. Then later, the fame and bright lights that they'd sworn would never change them. The stupid parties, the excesses that they'd all handled. He’d assumed Dave, infinitely strong under pressure - who had defiantly, post his breakup with Archie, thrown himself into his music and surrounded himself with a bevy of gorgeous blonds - would be able to handle everything. Obviously, he’d been wrong.
He'd told himself he would have put himself in front of a truck for Dave - but when Dave really needed him, he hadn't been there. Neal clenched his bad hand on the steering wheel, welcoming the stab of pain.
He slowed down belatedly when he got to Bakersfield, where a trailer nearly took him out at an intersection. He thought of his unborn daughter and stopped at a diner to take a break and grab a late, greasy lunch. The dark, cold truck stop suited his mood - with his parka and unshaven face and piercings he figured he’d fit right in.
The sun was red on the horizon when he pulled into Gracehaven's green, well-tended grounds. Under the winter sunset, the center was like a sanctuary of eternal summer. Neal wanted to like it, wanted to believe being in a place like this would help his friend get better.
Jill had kept her promise and called ahead. When Neal approached the reception area the redhead at the front desk said, "You must be Mr. Tiemann. We were told to look out for you today."
Neal wondered which aspect of piercings and tattoos had been used to describe him. He supposed he should be fortunate nobody had resorted to posting a police BOLO.
"How is David?"
The redhead consulted her chart and said, primly, "Can't go into specifics. Let me tell his case consultant that you're here."
Neal had consumed a pack and a half of smokes on the way here. He pulled out the battered half he'd picked up at the truck stop. The receptionist paused in her hushed telephone conversation to glare at him, and he stuffed the cigs back into his parka. He held his arms and paced up and down the elegant reception area. Damn, he should be feeling warmer than this.
Eventually a door slid open to admit a dark-haired woman around Neal's own age, all business in glasses and a tweed jacket. She held out a hand to Neal. "Mr. Tiemann, I'm Jennifer Ming, Mr. Cook’s case consultant. I have to tell you your coming here today has been a surprise to him, and it was touch and go for a while, but he’s now agreed to see you.”
Neal couldn’t feel her hand, couldn’t feel his toes, felt numb all through his body. “I heard about his being here. I couldn’t not come. Today, especially.”
She raised her eyebrows. “His birthday? He spent it with family; they left an hour ago. He’s unscheduled for the rest of the evening.” She looked at him more closely and said, “I’m going to have to ask you to give me a declaration of your personal belongings and sign an undertaking not to leave any unauthorized items with Mr. Cook. And a waiver in respect of anything that might happen to your person and property while onsite.” She paused as if remembering something. “You’d better turn over the cigarettes, too.”
Neal signed what he was asked to sign and surrendered his smokes. Meekly, he followed her up a flight of stairs into a bright corridor lit by the last of the California sunset.
She walked up to a door on the end of the corridor and knocked gently. “David, Mr. Tiemann’s here to see you.”
A familiar voice rasped an assent. She nodded and then held the door open for Neal.
Neal felt his muscles lock down. His body ached from the miles he’d traveled this day, the nicotine he’d consumed. His hand had never recovered from the day he’d broken Dave’s door and walked out of his life.
Somehow, he took a step forward.
The room was large and well-kept. A large bay window ran along its dorsal side, showing a sweeping view of the tended green lawn outside, and beyond that the wide sea. The sun was sinking below the horizon. Sprawled at the window seat was a man he hadn't seen for years, except for glimpses on the small screen, and the unguarded moments in his darker dreams.
Dave was wearing a soft rehab-issue shirt and pants, his feet bare. He looked thinner than Neal remembered, long red hair standing on end. There were lines in his face that hadn’t been there two years ago. His eyes were sick, feverish.
“Hey, Doc,” Dave said.
It was the same voice he’d heard over the years, too - most recently in that pretentious, over-reaching concept album the critics had panned. The voice he’d spent so many years playing alongside, in crappy little bars and huge stadia filled with screaming fans - as familiar to him as his own breath.
Neal took hold of himself. Say something.
“Why did no one fucking tell me you were in here earlier?”
Maybe he shouldn’t have gone with that. Too late now.
Dave held his gaze steadily and got to his feet. “Sorry,” Dave said. “Been too busy to send out the memo.”
It was the same joking bravado they’d always had, laughing in the teeth of danger. It was also the same defensive, paranoid bullshit they’d pulled on each other when things had started to go downhill. Neal couldn’t deal with this any more. His best friend was desperately unwell and looking at him as if he were a stranger.
“I swear to God, David, if you weren’t sick I would strangle you,” Neal said. He took another step forward, across the wide space between them, and put his arms around his friend.
Dave stood still for a moment, two, and then his arms came up in a tight hug and, fuck, fuck, Neal started crying and couldn’t stop.
Dave was saying something Neal couldn’t hear, his arms clenched around Neal to keep him from falling over. Neal cried and cried, ridiculously, couldn’t even remember the last time he’d cried - Dave was trying manfully to crack jokes to get Neal to stop and damn if Neal couldn't.
“I am so sorry, Neal, so sorry,” Dave said finally, when, thank fucking God, Neal ran out of tears.
“Goddammit, I’m sorry too,” Neal muttered and unceremoniously wiped his face on Dave’s shirt.
Dave manhandled him over to the window seat. Neal sat and tried to pull himself together.
Dave said gently, “Do the other guys know I’m in here?”
Neal shrugged. “Jill let something slip to Lin. I came right over after I made her tell me where you were. But if you don’t call Andy at some point, I think I might in fact kill you.”
Dave spoke softly, as if the words hurt. “I know. I meant to tell you, meant to tell him. But I wasn’t sure how to, and I figured I’d do it when I got out of here.”
“Too fucking late.” Neal glared at the floor. He’d be damned if he’d start crying again. Dave was breaking his heart. “If you had told us you were sick, David, if I’d figured how bad it’d been, earlier, I would have so hauled you in here myself. I would have, you know, even if I’d had to kill you first.”
Dave looked at him, eyes reddening: Dave’s turn now to hold back the tears. There was the look he remembered. It told him Dave would have put himself in front of a truck for him, for any of them, any day of the week.
“Dude, this is nobody’s fault but mine, c’mon.”
Neal exhaled hard through his nose. “Should have been a better friend,” he said. He was gonna do better now, even if it killed him; he wasn’t ever gonna let the fucker out of his sight again.
“Couldn’t have asked for better,” Dave whispered back and held out his arms.
Beta: My smart, geographically astute and always insightful
otherbellaPairing: Neal Tiemann/OFC, past Neal/Andrew Cook, past Cook/Archuleta
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for adult themes and substance abuse references.
Summary: On 20 December 2015, Neal gets word that his best friend needs him. From All I Really Need is You, Part 9.
Dedication: For
lire_casander. Happy birthday, darling. You asked me for this part of AIRN from Neal’s perspective, ages ago – I hope I did him justice. I love you and I love that you’re happy. I want all your dreams to come true. Also for my
frackin_sweet - when I imagined Neal’s kickass Lin, I saw a blend of Kara Thrace and you, because you’re just that awesome!Not-for-profit work of fiction, no libel or intellectual property violations intended. Will remove without prejudice if cease and desist validly issued. All publicly recognizable characters belong to themselves; Neal’s new puppy and OFC belongs to me ♥. Title taken from MWK song “Anodyne”, awesomely, seamlessly written by Neal and Dave, which I may have been listening to on repeat as I wrote this.
(Wishing) That Such Heights Were Lower
[Neal Tiemann, David Cook], [PG-13], 3,500+ words
From AIRN Ch 9: On Cook’s thirty-third birthday, Neal fucking Tiemann showed up unannounced at the rehab institute, pierced and tattooed and wearing what looked like the ugliest parka in the entire world.
Neal woke, blinking, with the cold winter dawn.
He hardly got enough fucking sleep these days. In this last month, Lin kept waking up every few hours to pee. He was now so used to anticipating her stirring beside him – the cant of the mattress, her muttered cursing - that his body roused itself even in her absence.
Half-asleep still, he reached for his cell.
There was the expected, characteristic message: Shuttle docking 7 am! The time panel by their bed read 6:32. Lin was flying into Fresno, which gave Neal plenty of time to get up and make himself presentable.
He sent: Copy. Keeping things warm for you, doll. He was the songwriter, after all; he was allowed to wax poetic to his girl.
He stumbled to the bathroom, trying not to curse out loud himself. The wooden floors were freezing under his bare feet. He’d no idea why he’d decided to buy this huge old house in the unfashionable Californian foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It had sounded kickass living amongst sequoia groves and the ecosystem that housed grand Yosemite Park, but on mornings like this he wondered why they didn't live three hours away in temperate San Francisco. In December, the solid brick walls of their house were colder than the winter armpit of Tulsa.
Lin usually rolled her eyes at comments like this. She’d grown up in Chicago, which was a different measure of coldness altogether. Neal still wasn’t sure what quirk of fate or fickle hand of the music industry had brought two die-hard Midwesterners out to California, but here they were, against the odds, by some fortuitous roll of the dice.
Of course, thoughts weren’t enough to keep him warm. Neal got into a sweatshirt and jeans and the fluffy slippers Drew had gotten him for his birthday last year. Drew knew from experience how cold Neal's feet got.
He padded downstairs and turned on the coffee maker. Sevven raised his nose from his place on the mat and whined enquiringly, and Neal opened the door to let the puppy out into the cold.
He stood on the frosty front step and watched Sevven bolt into the yonder. They'd lost Sixx a year ago at a ripe old age, but his frisky, amiable son - not a puppy anymore, though that's how Neal still thought of him - filled the void he'd left in their lives.
Neal squinted as the yellow morning broke over their yard. He refused to hire a gardener. Lin did her best when she was home, but still, in comparison to their neighbors on this side of the hills, their untended mile looked like the Addams' Family lot, especially now, with stripped trees and hardy hedges and clumps of frost on the bare ground.
His hands weren't shivering, exactly. Lin hadn’t asked, but he’d chosen to keep the smokes out of the house for the last seven months. So here he was functioning on less than zero nicotine and no one to blame except his own damn stubbornness.
Actually, his hand wasn’t shivering, it hurt; it always did when it was cold. And that was the result of his own damn stubbornness, too. He’d hurt it when he was younger, smashed it into a wall over a romance gone awry. Sheer stupidity, of course. The doctors said that without an operation he might never play again; he’d shown them.
Of course, the same sheer, stubborn stupidity had been involved when he’d hurt it again, two years ago to the day – smashing out of Dave Cook’s house over something even stupider than romance. Neal had believed they would always put the band first, always put the music first. He'd put himself in front of a truck for any of the guys. He'd believed Dave felt the same way. He guessed Dave had shown him where Dave's real priorities lay.
Neal clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to work out some of the stiffness. He'd brought a physiotherapist on the Midwest Kings reunion tour - it kept his fingers in working order in Cain's Ballroom and Pechanga and Tinley Park - but he'd been slack after the first leg of the tour. The Kings had New Year's Eve concert dates; he'd have to go see the doctor before then.
Shit, it was no good. Neal needed to get back inside. He put his hands under his armpits, arms around his chest. Something hurt there, too. He took a moment to recognize it as the hot, painful tightness that came with thoughts about Dave. The years had blunted the feeling, but he still thought about Dave all the time, with equal parts of anger at Dave's stubbornness and regret at his own.
And, of course, something else as well: he missed his best friend. Brilliant, charismatic, unafraid to wear his heart on his sleeve and laugh at himself, Dave had been larger than life, had been such a large part of Neal's life for more than a third of Neal's life. They had written and played together so seamlessly that they could have shared a brain, almost. Neal knew he'd never write with anyone who understood him on a personal and artistic level like that ever again.
Their problem, Neal figured grimly, was that they were too similar. Both too bull-headed, whatever: they'd ignite a roaring blaze to warm a concert hall, or that could burn the whole fucking house down. He couldn’t remember exactly how everything had gotten strained over the years, but at Dave's thirty-first birthday party, Neal had made some crack about Dave's precious acting career and Dave had gone apeshit, and the guys had had to pull them apart to keep them from killing each other.
He'd banged out of David's house that night, slamming the door so hard it cracked on its hinges. So hard he'd had to drive one-handed to the emergency room later, and had to fight back tears as the doctor shot his hand full of Novocaine.
They'd hardly seen each other since. Neal had nothing to say, less to apologize for. What the actual fuck, Dave had been too busy filming to even come to his wedding.
Damn, now Neal really needed a cigarette.
Smokes were in his car. He figured he had time for a quick one before Lin got home.
"Come here!" he shouted after Sevven, and the pup came obediently out of the frozen bushes. He jogged over to his old Jeep, Sevven at his heels - the dog had finally learned not to nip the furry Drew slippers.
He rummaged in the glove compartment for cigarettes and lighter, and smiled as the nicotine rush curled through his body. Standing in the cold in his gravel driveway wasn't helping, but he leaned against the side of his battered old vehicle anyway. He blew smoke rings into the frosty air and felt the sweetness of the drug leach some of his bitterness away.
He finished two smokes and got inside and warmed up. He put some shoes and socks on, which helped. He was starting his second cup of coffee when he saw Lin's round headlights pull around the bend and up the driveway.
He and Sevven were at the door in no time at all, not running, exactly, and when the Ford pulled to a stop Neal was lifting his wife out of the driver's seat and kissing hello.
"Cold," Lin said, after a while. Ah, he'd thought the coffee had warmed his lip rings up, but clearly he was wrong. He cupped her face. Her short blonde hair stood out around her head like a dandelion clock, it always got like that when she flew. She was wearing the aviator’s jacket he’d gotten her last year from the Battlestar Galactica convention, knee-high, high-heeled boots that made her even taller than he was, and a stretchy black maternity smock and skirt.
"How's my girl?" Neal asked softly.
Lin grimaced. "Kicking. She hates the United Airlines breakfast, and now I do too." She reached back into the car for her Coach satchel, and Neal popped the Ford's boot to retrieve her carry-on. Lin was a rock 'n' roll tour manager, her third trimester wasn't going to stop her from flying or driving or pulling her own damn suitcase on the 'plane.
He took her warm hand in his free one, and grinned to himself when she frowned at the touch of his rings and muttered, "Cold," again.
She took a somewhat ungainly seat at the kitchen table. He poured her some milk instead of coffee, and she made a face as she drank up. "How was Vegas?" he asked her.
"Warmer than here," she said.
"You should've stayed longer, sweetheart."
She reached for his hand in a rare gesture of affection. "Maybe I wanted to be home for my husband's birthday tomorrow, so sue me."
"I'm glad you did. I missed my girls," Neal said, and then he frowned when she kept looking away and didn't meet his gaze.
"I actually also wanted to tell you something," she said; there was a tentative note in her voice that was unusual for her. "About Cook. I had coffee with Jill when I was in L.A., she's still working for him."
Despite the warmth of the coffee, the dog at their feet, it was suddenly cold in their kitchen.
Neal tried to take hold of the artificial calm of the nicotine, the real, solid center of his life. Two years had passed: this shouldn't hurt this much any more. His wife shouldn't have to be this concerned about mentioning Dave's name to him.
He made his voice casual. "So what's the bastard done now?"
Lin finally looked up at him. Her gray eyes were transparent. "You need to be ready to hear this," she said and squeezed his hand; she'd never said anything like that to him before.
"Lin, damn it - "
She said, trying to sound matter-of-fact: "Cook's in rehab. Coke and amphetamines, apparently he's been using for years. Jill says he tried to kill himself."
Neal found he couldn't say a thing in response. The cold curled in his bones, took away his power to breathe.
Lin held his hand and waited, too. She looked kind of miserable. Neal was dimly aware of the fact he must look far worse.
"Fuck," said Neal, eventually.
Lin said, "I know, right? Jill was really messed up about it. She didn't know how he'd managed to keep it from her for so long."
Funny thing, Neal had an inkling of how that felt. Neal saw their last encounter in Cook's house in Pacific Hills, Cook's red, furious face, totally out of control. Oh God, he should have known, should have done something. Apparently he'd been using for years -
"What's Jill's number?" Neal asked. He wasn't shivering, his hand didn't hurt, his voice sounded exactly like him. His wife still couldn't meet his gaze, though.
"Neal..."
"Sweetheart, you know you need to tell me," he said, and she dug her cell out of her coat pocket and threw it on the table.
Being a personal assistant was a 24/7 job in L.A. Jill sounded alert and professional when she answered on the second ring. "Jill Harrison. Linda, is that you?"
"It's Neal. Where is he?"
Jill went completely silent. He could hear her debating whether to hang up. The blood pounded in his head, making everything suddenly hot. He didn't want to threaten to go to the press, or to yell at her, but if she didn't tell him --
"You'll make things worse," she told him, finally. She sounded sadder, more defeated than he remembered. "He was really upset when you guys fought, worse when the band broke up. I don't think you can do anything for him now. Why don't you just leave him alone?"
For the second time this morning, Neal found he couldn't say anything. He watched his bad hand tighten into a white-knuckled fist. In his peripheral vision, he could see his wife press her fingers to her mouth.
He heard Jill breathing rapidly on the other end, waiting.
Finally, Neal said, "I am so sorry," surprising himself. Words he hadn't said to Dave, and, goddamn it, now it might be too late.
Jill was silent, and the words came out of Neal in a rush. "I know I've been an asshole to him. I just never thought..." He squeezed his eyes shut. No, he never fucking thought - about anyone but himself. He'd shut Andy up when Andy wanted to talk about Dave; he might as well have been a paranoid coke-head himself for all the use he'd been as a friend.
Where the words were coming from, he had no idea. He said: "I can't just leave him alone; I've been doing that for the last two years. I should never have left him to face this by himself."
He heard her take a shuddering breath. He had to focus. He wasn't crying or anything; he was totally in control.
"You know it's his birthday today? If he's in rehab, he's gonna be feeling like shit. I...Jill, please." He leaned his head on the kitchen wall. "I need to see him."
He had to promise not to tell anyone before she told him, her voice so soft he had to ask her to spell it: Gracehaven, an upscale Orange County rehab center. Seemed like he had a long drive ahead of him.
"I'll call ahead," said Jill, faintly.
"Thank you," Neal said. It made her cry even harder before she hung up.
Lin was red-eyed when he handed her cell back to her. She was calm, though. Her ability under pressure was one of her strengths. Now he was the one who couldn't meet her gaze, couldn't embrace her - his defenses would come apart like Kleenex, and he needed to stay strong for the drive.
He put his hand on her waist. "I gotta go, sweetheart. I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll be back as soon as I can."
She nodded. What was there she could say except, "Drive safely”?
Freezing cold again. He shouldered his way into an ancient parka he knew she hated; today, though, she didn't say anything about how ugly it was. He knew she'd cry when he left, burying her face in Sevven's fur, but she was dry-eyed and straight-backed when she kissed him goodbye.
"Don't do anything stupid," she added. Her hand found Sevven's collar, holding him steady at her side.
Well, it might be too late for that.
Dana Point was a six hour drive across the new mountain freeway and down the I-5. Neal drove it in five, fueled by caffeine, swearing and smoking up a storm.
Five hours: more than enough time to watch the relentless playback in his head, the memories from over a decade of friendship. The early hardscrabble years, the gags with rubber chickens and plants and Walgreens, the late nights on the bus. Then later, the fame and bright lights that they'd sworn would never change them. The stupid parties, the excesses that they'd all handled. He’d assumed Dave, infinitely strong under pressure - who had defiantly, post his breakup with Archie, thrown himself into his music and surrounded himself with a bevy of gorgeous blonds - would be able to handle everything. Obviously, he’d been wrong.
He'd told himself he would have put himself in front of a truck for Dave - but when Dave really needed him, he hadn't been there. Neal clenched his bad hand on the steering wheel, welcoming the stab of pain.
He slowed down belatedly when he got to Bakersfield, where a trailer nearly took him out at an intersection. He thought of his unborn daughter and stopped at a diner to take a break and grab a late, greasy lunch. The dark, cold truck stop suited his mood - with his parka and unshaven face and piercings he figured he’d fit right in.
The sun was red on the horizon when he pulled into Gracehaven's green, well-tended grounds. Under the winter sunset, the center was like a sanctuary of eternal summer. Neal wanted to like it, wanted to believe being in a place like this would help his friend get better.
Jill had kept her promise and called ahead. When Neal approached the reception area the redhead at the front desk said, "You must be Mr. Tiemann. We were told to look out for you today."
Neal wondered which aspect of piercings and tattoos had been used to describe him. He supposed he should be fortunate nobody had resorted to posting a police BOLO.
"How is David?"
The redhead consulted her chart and said, primly, "Can't go into specifics. Let me tell his case consultant that you're here."
Neal had consumed a pack and a half of smokes on the way here. He pulled out the battered half he'd picked up at the truck stop. The receptionist paused in her hushed telephone conversation to glare at him, and he stuffed the cigs back into his parka. He held his arms and paced up and down the elegant reception area. Damn, he should be feeling warmer than this.
Eventually a door slid open to admit a dark-haired woman around Neal's own age, all business in glasses and a tweed jacket. She held out a hand to Neal. "Mr. Tiemann, I'm Jennifer Ming, Mr. Cook’s case consultant. I have to tell you your coming here today has been a surprise to him, and it was touch and go for a while, but he’s now agreed to see you.”
Neal couldn’t feel her hand, couldn’t feel his toes, felt numb all through his body. “I heard about his being here. I couldn’t not come. Today, especially.”
She raised her eyebrows. “His birthday? He spent it with family; they left an hour ago. He’s unscheduled for the rest of the evening.” She looked at him more closely and said, “I’m going to have to ask you to give me a declaration of your personal belongings and sign an undertaking not to leave any unauthorized items with Mr. Cook. And a waiver in respect of anything that might happen to your person and property while onsite.” She paused as if remembering something. “You’d better turn over the cigarettes, too.”
Neal signed what he was asked to sign and surrendered his smokes. Meekly, he followed her up a flight of stairs into a bright corridor lit by the last of the California sunset.
She walked up to a door on the end of the corridor and knocked gently. “David, Mr. Tiemann’s here to see you.”
A familiar voice rasped an assent. She nodded and then held the door open for Neal.
Neal felt his muscles lock down. His body ached from the miles he’d traveled this day, the nicotine he’d consumed. His hand had never recovered from the day he’d broken Dave’s door and walked out of his life.
Somehow, he took a step forward.
The room was large and well-kept. A large bay window ran along its dorsal side, showing a sweeping view of the tended green lawn outside, and beyond that the wide sea. The sun was sinking below the horizon. Sprawled at the window seat was a man he hadn't seen for years, except for glimpses on the small screen, and the unguarded moments in his darker dreams.
Dave was wearing a soft rehab-issue shirt and pants, his feet bare. He looked thinner than Neal remembered, long red hair standing on end. There were lines in his face that hadn’t been there two years ago. His eyes were sick, feverish.
“Hey, Doc,” Dave said.
It was the same voice he’d heard over the years, too - most recently in that pretentious, over-reaching concept album the critics had panned. The voice he’d spent so many years playing alongside, in crappy little bars and huge stadia filled with screaming fans - as familiar to him as his own breath.
Neal took hold of himself. Say something.
“Why did no one fucking tell me you were in here earlier?”
Maybe he shouldn’t have gone with that. Too late now.
Dave held his gaze steadily and got to his feet. “Sorry,” Dave said. “Been too busy to send out the memo.”
It was the same joking bravado they’d always had, laughing in the teeth of danger. It was also the same defensive, paranoid bullshit they’d pulled on each other when things had started to go downhill. Neal couldn’t deal with this any more. His best friend was desperately unwell and looking at him as if he were a stranger.
“I swear to God, David, if you weren’t sick I would strangle you,” Neal said. He took another step forward, across the wide space between them, and put his arms around his friend.
Dave stood still for a moment, two, and then his arms came up in a tight hug and, fuck, fuck, Neal started crying and couldn’t stop.
Dave was saying something Neal couldn’t hear, his arms clenched around Neal to keep him from falling over. Neal cried and cried, ridiculously, couldn’t even remember the last time he’d cried - Dave was trying manfully to crack jokes to get Neal to stop and damn if Neal couldn't.
“I am so sorry, Neal, so sorry,” Dave said finally, when, thank fucking God, Neal ran out of tears.
“Goddammit, I’m sorry too,” Neal muttered and unceremoniously wiped his face on Dave’s shirt.
Dave manhandled him over to the window seat. Neal sat and tried to pull himself together.
Dave said gently, “Do the other guys know I’m in here?”
Neal shrugged. “Jill let something slip to Lin. I came right over after I made her tell me where you were. But if you don’t call Andy at some point, I think I might in fact kill you.”
Dave spoke softly, as if the words hurt. “I know. I meant to tell you, meant to tell him. But I wasn’t sure how to, and I figured I’d do it when I got out of here.”
“Too fucking late.” Neal glared at the floor. He’d be damned if he’d start crying again. Dave was breaking his heart. “If you had told us you were sick, David, if I’d figured how bad it’d been, earlier, I would have so hauled you in here myself. I would have, you know, even if I’d had to kill you first.”
Dave looked at him, eyes reddening: Dave’s turn now to hold back the tears. There was the look he remembered. It told him Dave would have put himself in front of a truck for him, for any of them, any day of the week.
“Dude, this is nobody’s fault but mine, c’mon.”
Neal exhaled hard through his nose. “Should have been a better friend,” he said. He was gonna do better now, even if it killed him; he wasn’t ever gonna let the fucker out of his sight again.
“Couldn’t have asked for better,” Dave whispered back and held out his arms.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-05-20 04:31 pm (UTC)But srsly, I have so many feelings. I love that passage in AIRN when Neal visits Dave in rehab, and seeing Neal's POV leading up to that visit is just the awesomest thing ever, and SO not what I expected. As is the little slice-of-life thing you do with Neal here.
AND I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE. I haven't even used my Neal & Dave icons in FOREVER, but you get one :)
♥ ♥ ♥
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Date: 2010-05-20 04:33 pm (UTC)Also I just needed to use a Kara icon as well!!
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Date: 2010-05-21 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 12:34 am (UTC)I loved writing this from Neal POV; I kind of always meant to, actually! I didn't really get to write anyone apart from DCook in AIRN, and I wanted to show happy future!Neal. Well, happy (and happily married), save for this one thing.
Haha, I did indeed do something. ♥ ♥ ♥
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Date: 2010-05-20 05:10 pm (UTC)Which reminds me...I've got to catch up on ALRNIY soon. Why do I suck. /o\ ACK.
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Date: 2010-05-21 12:37 am (UTC)You so don't suck! It's sweet of you to wanna read my massive angst.
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Date: 2010-05-20 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 12:37 am (UTC)And, thank you!
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Date: 2010-05-20 07:26 pm (UTC)Off to read!
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Date: 2010-05-20 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 12:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-20 10:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 12:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-20 11:13 pm (UTC)If I was a stronger person I would reread your fantastic fic but I just can't go there. I prefer to remember the happy ending and the pretty children that followed.
Methinks it's time for you to write another epic Cookleta - you know you want to.
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Date: 2010-05-21 12:41 am (UTC)Also, TY, bb!
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Date: 2010-05-22 10:42 am (UTC)\o\
/o/
\o/
i've never been a good dancer lol
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Date: 2010-05-22 10:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 04:03 am (UTC)Also, can't wait for your au big bang! It shall be epic. :D
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Date: 2010-05-21 05:01 am (UTC)I'm excited for bigbang too! :)
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Date: 2010-05-21 11:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 06:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-21 09:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-22 12:01 am (UTC)If I could think of something to say that would really describe the love I have for your writing, I'd put it right here. I don't have the words!
Thank you for writing and sharing. I hope you never stop. <3
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Date: 2010-05-22 03:02 am (UTC)Thank you for reading, bb! <3
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Date: 2010-05-22 01:15 am (UTC)LOVED IT ALL.
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Date: 2010-05-22 03:00 am (UTC)ILU, CALIFORNIA GIRL ♥ ♥ ♥
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Date: 2010-05-22 05:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-22 11:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 11:51 am (UTC)Thank you very much for this!
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Date: 2010-05-23 12:45 pm (UTC)I hope your birthday was a happy one, my darling <333
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Date: 2010-05-24 12:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-24 04:17 am (UTC)